Runaway Thoughts
by zycroft
Summary: Olivia character study done through a sexual encounter with Elliot.


She's always thought naked men looked quite ridiculous. Sure, they're sexy as hell when you dress them up or strip them most of the way down, and a toned naked man laying down in her bed was a sight almost as good as the act about to follow.

But when they stand up, they just look funny. If he's aroused, she always looks away so she doesn't laugh at the preposterous visage of a man literally being led by his dick. The way it waggles back and forth in tandem with his movements is the least sexy thing she's ever seen in her life. If she has to see that, she'd rather see a smaller man who's erection was actually erect, pointing up, as it should. But the men who fall forward, whose dicks jut straight out in front of them or are even pointing down under their heavy weight, those are the men who feel good inside her.

Still the sight is no less ridiculous when it's Elliot. In fact, it may be even funnier, she thinks as she watches his dangling sac sway and roll against his thighs as he moves to the dresser to dig out a condom.

She can't decide if she's embarrassed that she ran out of the small stock in her nightstand, or that it happened so long ago she hadn't noticed. She wonders if the ones in the dresser have expired, but even if she had the words to communicate this to him, she wouldn't.

His cock is pointing down at an angle, and she's not really surprised by the size of him. Somehow, she'd always known that even if he wasn't huge, he wasn't small. She wonders if he stands an awkward distance from the dresser consciously or if his arousal flips some switch in his brain that instinctively keeps him from stepping too close to anything other than his bedmate.

His expression is serious and his steps purposeful as he stalks back to the bed, back to her. His intensity is nearly consuming and she thinks she'd drown in it if not for the bobbing, waggling motion in her periphery as she watches him bring the foil to his mouth and rip it open with his teeth.

She gulps.

Twelve years of foreplay, not to mention the last hour of intense attention, and she can't believe this is happening. She watches his face as he rolls the latex over his length, stops breathing when his eyes come up to meet hers.

And then she does drown in his intensity.

She's worried about what this will do to them. She knows he's worried, too, and she finds that strangely comforting. It makes her think that maybe they still have a chance after this, but she isn't naïve enough to believe that alone will save them.

She's worried that it's been awhile, too. It used to be that when her life spun out of control, she used sex to strengthen her grasp. All that stopped after Harris. A lot of things stopped after Harris, and she hopes he doesn't know that, can't read her mind here in her bedroom the way he's done so many times in the squad car.

His weight pushes the edge of the mattress level with the wooden frame, his knees digging deep craters that slowly fill in as he moves toward her. His presence here is more enveloping than she can remember it ever being and she feels like maybe she isn't here, maybe his existence has finally overwhelmed hers completely.

He moves to cover her body, running his hand up her arm and she feels the heat wash over her again. The single-minded focus of his kiss erases her doubts and fears about what they're doing and when he breaks the kiss, she finds herself clutching at him with her right leg hooked around his thigh and her hands pulling at the skin of his neck and hip.

His furrowed brow would look angry if not tempered by the concern in his eyes. Her roaming hands are seared by the crimson flush of his chest and neck, and she brings her hand up to cup his jaw, watches his brow furrow deeper than she'd ever seen. She drags a nail lightly along his jaw, listens to his breath hitch and drop as the stubble catches and slows her progress to his chin.

He kisses her again and she can feel the groan low in his chest. His lips trail down her neck to her collarbone, and she silently thanks him for instinctively avoiding her throat. She listens to the sound of his lips against her skin, his heavy breaths, the rustle of the bedding as he draws a leg up to get a better angle, her ears deaf to her own sounds.

He's hard against her belly and she's startled to feel the heat of him through the sheath. Her hips are shifting restlessly, her body searching for the only contact it doesn't have, and he draws back to reposition himself above her. She closes her eyes against his gaze until he murmurs her name into her skin.

He has to fight to keep his eyes open as he enters her, and she isn't sure if the heat from his body or the heat from his eyes burns her more. She's struggling with her own lids, but sheer force of will gets her what she wants, as it so often does. She sees every twitch, every flicker, every tick that ripples across his face and shoulders as he buries himself in her.

It's a bit uncomfortable. He's just a little too big for her and she's just a little too distracted by her surprise at the situation for her body to make this easier. As he settles his pelvis against hers, she has a sense of coming home, then wonders where the hell that thought came from. He moves before she can analyze it to death.

His breath is exploding in the crook of her neck in soft bursts that warm her skin. She tries to move under him, but his weight and her awe make it difficult for her body to remember how to do this properly. She lets her hands roam over his back, tracing the cords of muscle that bunch and flex as he moves. She thinks she should be memorizing the map that is Elliot Stabler's powerful back and shoulder muscles, but that part of her brain refuses to cooperate.

His strokes are slow, languid almost, and she isn't surprised to learn he fucks with measured control. There is a small taste of his brute force the last half-inch or so of each thrust, and the contact against her body is delicious.

She knows she won't come. She's too overwhelmed for that. She debates faking, weighing the merits of the lie for his ego's sake (and hers, if she's being totally honest) against the surety she'd start a self-perpetuating cycle of regret, distraction, and sexual frustration. She's been down that road before.

When he levers himself up and looks down at her, she can only stare open-mouthed at the sight of him. She stares into his eyes, sees his head hold steady against the constant motion of his body, his neck flexing as he moves in and out of her.

He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back for a moment before quickly dropping forward to hang low between his shoulders. She studies his thinning hair, wondering if it is as soft as it looks, before bringing a hand up the back of his neck to get a feel, to confirm. He gasps and moves his head up sharply, as if he's trying to fuse her hand to his crown, and a low moan rumbles through her bedroom and echoes in her mind.

When he stills inside her and his eyes burst open before falling shut, she can tell he's coming. The sight is sexier than she ever imagined and she thinks that maybe she was wrong, maybe she will be able to come. And then she feels him pulsing inside her, feels as each burst travels his length inside her and she doesn't want it to end.

He holds himself just above when he's done. She can feel the vibrations of his shaking arms as he keeps from crushing her and she pulls at the middle of his back, tries to fight him down. She wants to be crushed.

His breath hasn't evened out before he moves to roll off her, and she grapples with him to keep him in place. He rolls his head, lifts it just enough to make eye contact, and she can see a question or questions there, but she's suddenly forgotten the language and can't read them.

"Stay here," she says, and she knows she means on top of her and she knows she means stay with her tonight and she wonders if maybe she doesn't also mean stay with her forever. She thinks maybe she does, but she isn't going to say that.

"Liv," he pleads.

"It's ok, El."

He lets his head drop again and wraps his arms against her body.

When he finally has to move again, she gets up and gets a glass of water. She's a little disappointed that he's headed into the bathroom to dispose of the condom and doesn't watch her walk to the door and into the hallway. She feels a little silly for walking around naked, and drinks her water fast before returning to the bedroom to put some clothes on. She judges that enough time has probably passed that she can get dressed without it being awkward.

In the bedroom, she stares wistfully at his dress shirt crumpled on the floor and wishes they were the type of easy-going, light-hearted couple in which the woman can wear his shirt after sex. But they've never been easy going, and their hearts are so heavy she feels they're going to crush them sometime. She pulls on a sweatshirt, instead.

She's tugging a pair of yoga pants up her legs when he comes out of the bathroom. His naked form is a powerful sight, and the metaphor of the shadows playing across his muscles isn't lost on her. His flaccid penis rests easily against the sac between his legs, and she can't decide if it's not hanging quite as low or if that's just her mind playing tricks on her.

His nudity and flaccidity doesn't weaken him the way it does other men. He looks like Elliot, her partner, her best friend, her protector and tormenter. He's comfortable with his body, and she envies him that ease as she feels the weight of the heavy sweatshirt press down on her shoulders and breasts.

"Do you want me to go?" and of course it's a _you_ question. Of course it isn't, "Can I stay?"

She shakes her head and he reaches down to pull back the bedding before settling under it. He covers himself to his navel and rests his hands over the Egyptian cotton alongside his body as he watches her.

She blushes, and thinks how strange and fucked up and so them it is that she's blushing now. She gives him an uncomfortable smile and mumbles something about another drink of water as she leaves the room.

She's thankful that he doesn't come looking for her after she's been sitting curled on the couch for close to twenty minutes. She wonders if he's asleep and hopes he is because she can't imagine what he's thinking if he's still awake.

The longer she stays in the living room, the more difficult it will be to not stay in the living room, so she gets up and heads down the hallway. She pauses at the door, steels herself for what she'll have to do next, then pushes in quietly.

His eyes are closed and his breath is deep and even, but she knows he is only pretending to sleep, and she's grateful. She quickly takes her clothes off again, then hurries under the covers.

He rolls over to face her without any pretense and gently lays his arm across her abdomen.

"Let's sleep," he says.

So they do.


End file.
